Only In Dreams
by OddLittleBrit
Summary: Arthur sees war every time he falls asleep, but at least he has the comfort of knowing his family are there when he wakes up- right? Something isn't quite right, and he isn't sure what - has FACE family, FrUK and mentions of other pairings


**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia isn't mine **

**PAIRINGS: FrUK**

* * *

_Arthur's dreams were full of war. War, blood, and a Frenchman screaming his name._

* * *

Arthur was sitting in his kitchen, one hand wrapped around a large mug of his morning tea, the other flipping through the paper. He glanced down at the paper, confused for a second by the words on the paper. 'Must have started day dreaming' he laughed to himself as he reread the sentence over again, sinking back into his routine of reading and sipping. As he finished his article with a sigh, he took a long swig of his tea, and then heard footsteps.

Shocked, he placed the cup back down, turning around to find Francis in the doorway, wearing nothing but his pants. The blonde grinned, and Arthur yelled.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here, frog?!" he yelped, twisting the paper in his hands and thwacking Francis over the head with it. Shocked, Francis fell backwards into the wall, grabbing his head and looking hurt.

"Ahh! I know we argued, but really, I thought we made up…" he pouted, rubbing the sore spot. Arthur scoffed. "Made up? When?" he asked and Francis grinned slyly.

"When you went down on me lik-"

"Shut your mouth! I did no such thing, France!" Arthur snapped, confused and a little bit annoyed that Francis would sneak into his house just to wind him up. Francis raised an eyebrow, stepping forward.

"Fran_cis," _he corrected, grinning again. "You're going senile already, Arthur," he said, and Arthur's brows furrowed. "No, _France, _I'm not, and thank you very much, it's England to you," he said, poking the bare chested Frenchman on the sternum. Francis took a step back, genuine confusion in his eyes.

"Arthur, stop this, what are you talking about? Are you okay?" he said, going to put a hand on the Englishman's head. Arthur's eyebrows rose, and he folded his arms.

"I'm fine, except you're here, in my house, what are you blathering on about?" he said, and all traces of joking fell from Francis' face.

"Arthur…? Have you hit your head, don't you… remember? This is a horrible prank if not…" he said, arms falling to his sides. Arthur stared at him, waiting as though Francis would break and start laughing.

But he didn't.

"Arthur? Please, did you hit your head at work- I'm your husband!" Francis said, reaching forward and grabbing Arthur by the arms. Arthur gasped, staggering backwards, hitting his back painfully against the table. He rubbed at it, his cheeks flaring red.

"Don't play such a terrible joke on me France, we're not married, we're-" Francis stepped closer, moving his hands up Arthur's arms.

"Married, Arthur, please stop with this France thing; I am Francis Kirkland, oui? You are Arthur Kirkland, my husband. Look!" he said, lifting his left hand up, where sure enough, a ring glinted in the early rays of sunlight. Arthur flushed a darker red.

"Shut up, you git, shut up! We're not married, I hate you! I'm not married to you!" he protested, shaking his fist. Then another glint caught his eye. On his own hand. He faltered.

"No…. this is just one, huge, horrible prank you and Spain thought up, it's just awful!" he said, and Francis looked concerned. "You mean Antonio- Arthur no!" he gasped, as Arthur went to pull off the ring.

Suddenly, Arthur's head was full of memories, of their relationship, the engagement, the wedding - of course! How could he forget? Yes, the memories were coming back, what on Earth had come over him? He glanced up, finding Francis with his hands around his, and slowly sliding the ring back into its place.

"Arthur?"

"… Francis. I-I'm sorry… I've no idea what came over me," he said, feeling rather embarrassed. Francis chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur's cheek and patting his bottom. "I think you're overworking yourself, mon cher," he said, turning to the fridge. "Now why don't you go wake the boys, all of us slept in late - we'll need to hurry dinner if it's going to be ready when the family arrive," he called, and Arthur turned, confused.

"… who's coming again?" he asked, hoping the affects of this overworking wouldn't last long.

"Your brothers, and Niamh, silly - and your mother!"

Arthur almost died on the spot

* * *

The boys were asleep, both in their shared room, that for some reason, Arthur thought was his library. He stepped over the toys that lay on the floor, and glanced at the two sleeping figures in the bunk bed. Matthew, curled into his bear like a kitten and its mother - and Alfred. One leg on his pillow, the other poking over the edge of his top bunk and the duvet in a pile under his head.

It was so normal.

Arthur felt faintly sad for a moment, as he looked at the boys, and a sudden fear that he was going to lose them filled him. They looked so small, but Alfred was tall enough his pyjamas were too short, and Matthew was growing steadily bigger than his bear. Arthur reached down, unsure as to why he suddenly had the urge to pull the boys close. He shook Matthew's shoulder gently, smiling as the small boy blinked up at him.

"Mornin' dad," he mumbled, sitting up and almost falling in Arthur's lap. "Good morning Matthew," he said, running his hand through the small blonde's hair. The oddest thoughts of Canada were floating through his mind, wisps of memories resurfacing; a horrible war, the look in a blonde mans eyes, someone screaming.

He glanced down at Matthew, who was leaning into him, and then - of course he thought of Canada, the boy's parents had lived there before he was put into care. He must have slept badly last night, and the strange dreams of war were unsettling him. Must be it.

It would explain the odd feeling about Alfred - neither were his biological sons, but they were his boys nonetheless. Arthur was lost in his own mind for a moment, till the bed above him creaked and Alfred tumbled to the floor. Arthur straightened in shock as Alfred landed with a thud, but the seven year old just laughed and stood up; the boy was indestructible! "Morning dad!" he all but yelled, and Matthew scowled. "Shut up, Al, you're so _loud!" _he groaned, and Alfred stuck his tongue out "No, you're too _quiet_," he retorted, and it looked like a war was waging, so Arthur coughed and gave his sons a stern look.

"Oi! Stop this, alright? Or nobody gets dessert tonight, and Papa's making chocolate cake, now get dressed," he said and suddenly both boys were at their wardrobes pulling out clothes.

The English man shook his head, smiling. Now he just had to tell Francis to make chocolate cake.

* * *

The mornings oddities were soon forgotten by both blondes, as the house became busy as the two boys ran around 'tidying', Arthur running after them while trying to keep an eye on the vegetables at the same time, while Francis was preparing the rest of the evenings meal. No one mentioned Arthur's odd morning as his siblings arrived; Owen with sweets that were ever so subtly eaten with the boys behind Arthur's back, Niamh bouncing in from her car, Liam on his bike (despite the rain) and Lachlann with a DVD for Arthur and a slap on the arse for Francis.

"Still going for the weediest of us?" he joked, pulling Arthur's whiskey from the cupboard and helping himself to a glass. Francis shook his head, snatching the whiskey from Lachlann's hand and swallowing it in one go as Arthur looked on. The oddest jealousy pooled inside him as he watched the two throw witty insults back and forth, some of the dirtier ones in French to avoid prying ears. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he couldn't help but think the two had some sort of history together. Which was stupid, he thought, none of the Kirkland's had know Francis Bonnefoy until Arthur brought him home.

It was almost as though he'd seen this scene before, only somewhere warmer, and the touches had been much softer, much more caring.

Then there was a knock at the door, and Arthur jumped from his musings and went for the door. There stood a woman with flaming red hair and eyes the same shade of green as her sons, only these were lined with age, and looked so much wiser. He could never forgot those eyes.

His mother. He flung his arms over her shoulders, feeling oddly sad that he was now taller than her - it felt like last time they'd met he was only young. Her hands came up to his back and she squeezed him gently.

"Arthur, dear Lord, what's got into you?" she asked, and Arthur looked up, feeling a lump in his throat. "I… I'm not sure," he said in a whisper, scratching his head, and his mother cocked her head at him. "What?"

He shrugged, and she whacked him over the head. "Don't shrug, now come on," she said, ushering him into the kitchen "Where's my handsome little son-in-law?"

Arthur followed her through, watching as the last of the dishes were put out and his family sat around the table. Someone had put music on, a cheerful song that filled the dining room as the smell of dinner wafted up from the table, and he heard Alfred laugh at something and Matthew brush past him to grab a seat by his favourite aunt. Everything was so normal, so nice… perfect even.

* * *

He couldn't get to sleep that night, not at first. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood, so he stayed up till past 2 AM, reading. Francis eventually rolled over, a grumpy look in his eyes. "Would you go to sleep already? Some of us have places to be tomorrow," he said, giving Arthur a playful shove. Arthur shook his head, smiling slightly. "Sure… sure," he said, flicking the light off and burrowing under the covers.

He thought only of the book as he drifted off to sleep, and he was successful for a while. It wasn't until he fell asleep that he saw the blood and war again.

* * *

_Life was good when he wasn't sleeping, when the dreams of blood and war weren't plaguing him. The odd moods went too, the strange almost-memories he'd been having - they stopped. Life went on as normal for Arthur Kirkland and his family, until he woke up. _

* * *

The walls are white and so is his bed. He glances to the right, and the wall is white there too, no windows. He turns to the left, and there is a door, but it is white too.

There is no colour in this room, except the man by his side. Francis. Arthur smiles, Francis is here. Then he frowns. He has no idea where 'here' is, it seems to be… a hospital? Had he been ill? Where were his boys, his brothers, Niamh?

He opens his mouth and finds he can croak.

"Francis?" he asks the blonde. Tired eyes glance up, but suddenly, they're not tired anymore. "England!" he yells, and Arthur flinches.

"England?" he asks, worry pooling in his stomach.

"Oui, Angleterre… you remember, non? You were… you've been in a coma," he says, picking up Arthur's hand. "The war, it's over, but we thought we were going to lose you…" Arthur licks his lips, and shakes his head.

"Who's England?" he asks, confused. He isn't England, Francis told him so. He's Arthur, and he's just a man. Francis' face falls, and he lifts a hand to Arthur's chin.

Arthur wonders for a moment if he's going to kiss him, because that sounds right, that's how a man greets his husband after a coma, isn't it?

But he doesn't, he just holds him. "Francis, stop this," he says, scared, groping around for Francis' hand. He pulls it up, and finds it on the blanket. Bare of any rings.

Tears swim in Arthur's eyes. Where is his husband? Where are his sons?

"Angleterre, what's wrong?!" Francis cries, standing up and pulling Arthur to his chest. Arthur cannot answer as his whole life tumbles down around him.


End file.
